back to my roots

So, last night I realized that it's been quite a while since I sat down and wrote (creatively). It made me go back to the last set of things i wrote a few months ago. I've decided to post them here. Please feel free to read/browse/comment.

My reaction to the Peace Rally in commemoration of the death of Yitzhak Rabin:

My back sends reminders of its discomfort, which I gladly ignore. You see, I am busy, busy giving up my voice, a martyr in the name of Peace’s survival. We lean back and open up our memories and our souls and let the Hope pour out. He stands next to me, a complete stranger. Green shirt. Slightly taller than most. Broad shoulders. Sneakers that have done a fair amount of traveling. These are the things I know about him. But we stood there and for the moment, we were “we” and not just a “him” and a “me.” The words erupt without invitation, a mosaic of accents and intonations gluing the air together. We live together in this moment. We live in the blood of the tears we wipe away too quickly. We live in the salt of our optimism, exaggerated and mistrusting. All 200,000 of us, including the “he” and the “me” that are for the moment a “we.” I know that our voices will soon abandon their temporary engagement. Perhaps they will collide, without purpose, as I squeeze by his now domesticated sneakers on the train, or while ordering pita and houmus to satisfy the impatience of empty stomachs. Or not. The moment gives birth to “we,” only to remind us of it’s conditional existence as the Hope fades and the murmur of the crowd grows. Even so, the temporary invention of “we” reverberates and, perhaps, brings us one step further down the path Rabin started 10 years ago.

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A short story (very short): Table for Two Minus One

The second of the two waxy brick red candles flickers slightly before joining me and its twin in a sigh of “I give up.” Not long ago they awaited patiently in the middle of my modest but sturdy mahogany table; two darling ballerina legs of grace, ushering in the evening. Now I see them for what they truly are: Hallmark-ridden, cliché molds of romance, a category that, given the situation, seems utterly appropriate.

Fuck it. Where’s the corkscrew? It’s times like these that I crave the headache I know will pound quietly on my temples tomorrow morning should I actually finish the bottle. At the very least it would interfere with my need to analyze my overanalysis of what just happened. If I wasn’t so goddamn rational, I would pull one of those Almodovar film stunts, where the enraged woman thrashes about her apartment, uniting the porcelein dishes and tiled floor with a chaotic yet purposeful sweep of her hand. But despite my anger and clearly warranted frustrations, my next thought would surely be: shit, now I have to clean this up too.

My gut instinct seems to have gone on vacation to Vegas. I just see her now, gambling away my sanity on a pair of Aces. As it turns out, she’s only around when I’m already making the “right” decision. “Uh-huh, yup, that’s what I would have done too,” she declares with confidence. Wow. Thanks. Really. Where the hell was she yesterday when I bought and put on layaway each and every word that slid off his tongue. Sure you can come over for dinner. Sure you can apologize and make me laugh. Sure you can act like it’s water under the fucking bridge. Like a baby with a passé fire, I know it’s not the real thing, but apparently I’ll suck my little heart out just to sleep easy, won’t I?

Thanks to a bottle of red wine and some too-old-but-I-don’t-care-right-now Milky Way bars, I’ll be out within the hour. Here’s how it’ll happen: I’ll flip back and forth between “Sleepless in Seattle” on TNT and “Casablanca” on AMC, and avoid commercials as much as possible. The last thing I need right now is some soft, gimmicky barbie voice asking me if I want to meet local singles, how they can surely find the right match for me within minutes. Very funny. I’m not amused. I’ll somehow convince myself that the world is trying to mock me and put on the ugliest pajamas I own before crawling into my now way too big bed. I’ll fall asleep quickly but wake up within a half hour to realize that I have a rancid taste in my mouth from stale chocolate and too much wine. Some Colgate action and eye-makeup remover later, I’ll collapse back onto the mattress even though sleep now seems frivolous. Dreams will conquer sooner than expected and tomorrow morning will arrive without invitation per usual.

Having it all planned out makes it easier to avoid. I pick up the phone.

He picks up on the fourth ring. The one that says he wasn’t sure he was going to answer it, but decided at the last minute that it would be easier than having to call me back, perhaps.

“Heeyyyy hon, I was just about to call you.”

This is a lie. I can’t even convince myself otherwise because when someone picks up on the fourth ring it’s a sign that either they had the phone on hand and weren’t going to call you, or the phone was far away, and they weren’t going to call you. I tell him this.

“No. You weren’t. But we can pretend if it makes you feel better.”

“What’s wrong?? Why the trigger-happy tone of voice?”

He took a stab at ignorance, I’ll play along perhaps. Ok, no I won’t. There’s too much blood in my wine stream.

“You missed an amazing dinner tonight. Leek and spinach cream soup. Sauteed garlic and lemon on chili pepper spiced salmon. Pistachio and walnut mousse. And the worst part is that you made me miss it too. Food served on tables for two minus one lose all flavor, you know? It’s basic culinary law.”

I heard him silently stutter…so I continued.

“And the thing is, I was ready for my two classic “c’s” – clarity and closure. Yesterday the deck of cards was shuffled and placed neatly on the table, ready to be slid into the box, neatly and without too much fuss. But you pleaded. You jumbled. You called me the Queen of Hearts and promised to abandon the ways of a Joker. And you won. You won without my even putting up a real fight. And throughout today your words let my heart convince what’s left of my sanity that I could spend concert money and thesis preparation time on something much more worthy: dinner with my future. And now your silence and lack of explanation delivers exactly what I’ve been looking for. I’ve finally found my clarity. And as for closure…”

The phone beeped it’s monotone nod of approval as I place it back on the charger. The ringer is turned off of course. The end of the evening has arrived, and I am drunkenly grinning as tears whisper down my cheeks. I open the dead-bolt and let it all in. Tomorrow hangs over the arm of the loveseat where I doze off, and I let National Geographic’s explanation of bird migration lull me away from clarity.

Closure.